Hauntings and Heists

by Dan Poblocki

  When they had all met in the cafeteria at a long booth near the windows, he began. “Dr. Blunt called me last night.” The group gasped, and Woodrow continued. “He actually congratulated us on figuring out his hoax.”

  “He congratulated us?” Viola couldn’t believe it. She’d been so sure that he would have been upset or embarrassed at being caught.

  “He told me that he doesn’t believe that there’s a beast in the river, but plenty of animals do live in the Hudson River — and the contest was actually really destructive to their habitat. People were trampling the shores, going out on their boats, disrupting the water, and polluting the river. Remember all the litter we saw that weekend?”

  “So Dr. Blunt wanted the contest to be over as soon as possible?” guessed Rosie.

  “Exactly,” said Woodrow. “He found a rubber monster mask, half submerged it under the Grand Street Dock, and took pictures. And now he wants me to go to the paper and tell them what we discovered.”

  “Why would he want us to do that?” Sylvester asked.

  “His plan backfired. Since the photo was printed, more and more people are on the river, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monster. And that’s putting real animals in danger—including a creature that might account for the sightings of a ‘beast.’ It’s an animal that he says needs to be protected by conservationists … people like my mom in the park service.”

  “Did Dr. Blunt say what kind of creature is actually in the river?” asked Viola.

  “I think I know what it could be,” said Rosie. “I’ve read about a fresh-water fish that lives in the Hudson River. It can grow really big. It’s called a sturgeon.”

  “Exactly!” Woodrow said. “Dr. Blunt said a sturgeon is a kind of non-scaly, bottom-feeding fish that can grow several feet long—sometimes even longer than a human is tall. They’re in danger, supposedly, because they produce eggs that people like to eat.”

  “Eww!” Sylvester exclaimed, dropping his tuna-salad sandwich onto his napkin.

  “So what do we do?” Rosie asked.

  “Contact the paper, like Dr. Blunt said. He wants to bring attention to the plight of the sturgeon here in Moon Hollow, and he hopes that this controversy will open people’s eyes to the problem. He also wants to donate the money he** won to the River Ecology Project, if the Herald lets him keep the prize.”

  Viola was quiet for a few seconds. “It’s funny,” she said. “After we learned that Dr. Blunt had faked the picture, I thought of him as the bad guy. But now, he seems like a pretty good guy.”

  “Yeah,” Sylvester agreed, “makes you wonder: Who are the real beasts in the river?”

  17

  MOON HOLLOW GHOST STORIES

  During lunch the next week, Sylvester and Woodrow approached Viola and Rosie, who were sitting together in their favorite booth near the cafeteria window. “Hey, Viola,” Sylvester said, “what’s going on with the ghost in your house? Have you heard any more strange noises?”

  “Not lately,” Viola answered, after chewing and swallowing a chunk of apple. “Why? You look like you’ve seen a ghost yourself.”

  Woodrow shook his head. “We just heard some kids saying that the old Reynolds house is haunted too.”

  “The creepy place across the street from us?” Rosie said, surprised. She turned toward Viola. “Mr. Reynolds was the guy who owned that old black car—the one you and Woodrow have seen driving around.”

  “Right,” said Viola, picturing the house in her mind. The building sat up the hill away from the street, hidden by a tangle of trees and vines. It was covered in formerly white wooden shingles. The paint was faded now, the grass overgrown. She guessed that’s what happened when an owner died and his property fell into ruin. It was sad, really. If any house in this town was likely to be haunted, that was the one, even more so than her own. “So why do people think the place is haunted … other than the fact that it’s a total creep-fest?”

  Sylvester pointed across the cafeteria. “Ricky Farrell said he was riding his bike late last week and saw a light floating inside a few of the upstairs windows.”

  “That doesn’t mean the place is haunted,” said Rosie. “Does it?”

  “Obviously not,” Viola answered. “Still, why would someone be sneaking around in an abandoned place? I remember Rosie mentioned that no one’s bought it since Mr. Reynolds died, right?”

  “Yeah,” said Woodrow. “It’s still got all his stuff in it, I think.”

  “There you go!” said Viola. “Maybe it was a burglar. There could be valuables still in the house.”

  “Except that’s not the only reason people are saying it’s haunted,” Sylvester continued. “They’re claiming to have seen Mr. Reynolds.”

  “Where?” Rosie asked.

  “In his yard, for one,” Woodrow said. “He used to do a lot of gardening out there.”

  “And someone else said they actually saw him in town late one night,” Sylvester added. “Just walking down the street, looking as alive as you and me.”

  “Wait a second,” Viola said. “Couldn’t it have been someone who just looked like Mr. Reynolds? People see what they want to see sometimes.”

  “You’ve never seen this guy, Viola,” said Woodrow. “He looked like no one else. He was tall and thin, with a body like a scarecrow. He always wore a wide-brimmed straw hat and oversized jeans that he held up with bright red suspenders, like it was his uniform or something.”

  “That does sound pretty distinctive,” Viola admitted.

  “He kept to himself when he was alive,” said Sylvester. “No one knew much about him.”

  Viola remembered the research she and Rosie had done about the previous owners of her own house. “Then we should find out about him ourselves,” she said. “I mean, two haunted houses right across the street from each other? What are the chances of that?”

  “Maybe Moon Hollow is just filled with ghosts,” said Sylvester, drawing up his eyebrows.

  “Or maybe,” said Viola, “we’ve got ourselves another mystery to solve.”

  18

  THE BLACK CAR CLUE

  (A ?????? MYSTERY)

  The group took turns that week staking out the Reynolds place after school. Viola and Rosie had the best view, since both of their houses faced uphill. But neither of them witnessed anyone going in or out. The house was completely silent. Viola creeped herself out by wondering if someone or something inside might be watching them too.

  Then they all tried the library, just like Viola had done when she had read about Fiona Hauptmann, to see if they could learn more about the man who had once lived across the street from her. The library didn’t have nearly as much information about Mr. Reynolds. A picture showed him exactly as Woodrow had described him: old, frail, but with a piercing, almost frightening stare. The group learned that before he’d retired, Nelson Reynolds had worked at a nearby prison as a late-shift guard. He had owned his house for a long time — fifty years at least. Again, none of their findings gave them a clue whether or not he had returned from beyond the grave. But then, wondered Viola, what would?

  The next day, Woodrow came up with a new idea, which he mentioned to the group at lunch. “What if we try and look closer?”

  “That’s what we’ve been doing,” said Rosie. “Paying attention, like Viola said on the day she moved in.”

  Woodrow shrugged. “I was thinking about looking even closer than we have before.”

  “You mean … ?” Viola tried to draw it out of him.

  “He means trespassing,” said Sylvester.

  “What?” said Rosie. “No way.”

  “But if the house doesn’t belong to anyone,” Woodrow said, “then we’re not really trespassing, right?”

  “Just tell yourself that when you’re sitting behind bars,” Viola said.

  “All I’m saying,” Woodrow continued, “is that maybe we should check out the house. At the very least, we can walk up the driveway. If anyone asks us what we’re doing, we can come up
with an excuse. Isn’t that what detectives do?”

  “I guess we could say we’re lost,” Rosie said.

  “Or that we’re selling candy bars for the basketball team,” Sylvester chimed in.

  “Or that we’re ghost hunters!” Woodrow said.

  “Or that we’re just kids who didn’t know any better,” Viola suggested. “Although that’s totally not going to fly if my parents find out what we’re up to.”

  “So it’s settled, then,” said Woodrow. “After school, we meet in front of the Reynolds house to do some exploring.”

  The day had clouded over, and the wind was rising, sweeping dead leaves across the dried-out lawns of the neighborhood. As the kids stood on the sidewalk across the street from the overgrown tangle of trees, they felt the first truly cold blast of autumn. Viola clutched at herself, wondering if it was merely the weather which was giving her chills.

  Woodrow led the way up the cracked asphalt driveway and into the shadowy tunnel of overhanging branches. Ahead, a small garage sat detached from the rest of the house. Woodrow whipped out his camera and began taking pictures. Viola opened her notebook, prepared to jot down anything she noticed that might be important. Rosie knelt on the driveway, examining what looked like some sort of stain. Oil perhaps? And Sylvester approached the house, feeling along its foundation, as if he might come across a secret entrance.

  “Hey, you guys,” Woodrow whispered. “Check this out.” He was peering through the dirty window of the garage’s side door. He held up his camera and pressed the shutter, and a flash lit up the surrounding trees.

  “Careful,” said Viola. “We don’t want to draw too much attention.”

  “Sorry,” Woodrow answered, “but I thought I saw something inside the garage, and I needed a bit of light.”

  “What did you see?” Sylvester asked, coming up close behind him.

  “A car.”

  The girls raced to catch a glimpse as well. “What kind of car?” Rosie asked. But before Woodrow could answer, Sylvester had turned the doorknob, and they all found themselves staring into the dim space beyond.

  “I guess you can see for yourself now,” said Woodrow, stepping inside.

  “Wait!” Viola called. Even though this was thrilling, something was holding her back. “This could be a bad idea. What if someone’s watching us?”

  “Like who?” said Sylvester, following Woodrow into the garage.

  “Like … Mr. Reynolds.”

  Rosie took a deep breath, then she too disappeared into the shadows. Woodrow called out, “Well, I guess if he is watching, then we can just ask him why he’s haunting this place. Case closed.”

  Viola closed her eyes and thought to herself, I’ve created monsters, before stumbling forward into the darkness. Once her eyes adjusted, she noticed her friends standing around the front of a large black car, staring in wonder. “This is Mr. Reynolds’s old car,” said Sylvester. “I remember him driving this thing everywhere.”

  “Did it ever backfire?” Viola asked, reaching out and brushing dirt from the warm hood. Her hand came away filthy.

  “You mean like the one we’ve heard recently?” Woodrow said. “I think so.”

  “Do ghosts drive cars?” Rosie said.

  “Maybe what we’ve been hearing was a ghost car,” whispered Sylvester. “Maybe the ghost version of Mr. Reynolds is driving a ghost version of his old car.”

  Viola shook her head. “No … the car we’ve seen recently—the one that keeps making all that noise—is no ghost. It’s as solid as the car in front of us. The proof is right here.”

  “Where?” asked Woodrow.

  “When I touched the car just now, the hood was warm. It’s too cold out for the car to stay warm on its own, so that means someone has been driving this car today.”

  “Whoa,” said Sylvester, reaching out and touching the hood himself. “You’re right.”

  “But wouldn’t we have seen someone pull up the driveway?” Rosie asked.

  “Not if we were at school,” said Viola.

  Woodrow suddenly went rigid. “You guys. Do you know what that means?” No one answered. The look on Woodrow’s face kept them silent. “Whoever drove this car might be in the house right now. He might have watched us come in here.” The group turned toward the door, which was still open at the side of the garage. “What if he doesn’t just call the police? What if he does something worse?”

  “Shh! What was that?” said Rosie, flinching and stepping closer to Woodrow.

  “I hear it too,” said Viola. “Listen.”

  The sound of footsteps approached from outside, moving slowly, tentatively. Viola’s heart raced as a shadow moved in front of the door. Before she could even think to hide, a figure appeared there, and Viola had to hold back a scream.

  “Viola Hilary Hart,” said her mother, “get out of there right this instant.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Hart,” said Woodrow, stepping forward. “It was my idea. We were trying to solve a mystery.”

  “What a big surprise,” Mrs. Hart answered, waving them forward. “I suppose breaking and entering was part of this mystery? Come on, guys, out. Let’s go.” Once they were all standing on the driveway, she led them back toward the street. “I was home early, listening to the police scanner when I heard that someone had called in, claiming to have witnessed a group of four kids going somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. When they mentioned the address, I knew who they were talking about. Now if we all run, maybe we can make it back across the street before the patrol cars arrive.”

  Thoroughly embarrassed, Viola sat with her friends at the Four Corners. It was cold and dark and the lawn was damp.

  “Hey, at least it was your mom,” Woodrow said, trying to ease the tension. “It could have been worse.”

  “Yeah, but now she made us promise that we won’t go back up there again. She won’t even go and knock on the door for us. How are we going to solve the mystery?”

  Rosie raised her hand. “Remember the day we met Viola, how we figured out where she lived before she moved to Moon Hollow? I managed to find a similar clue while we were in the garage. I think it might actually help us figure out who’s been driving that car…. I mean, if it’s not the ghost of Mr. Reynolds. Can you guess what I found in the garage?”

  Rosie pulled out a piece of scrap paper from her back pocket, and passed it around the small circle. “I wrote down the car’s license plate. It’s registered in New Hampshire, not here in New York State. I wonder if there’s a way we can find out who it belongs to.”

  “So you don’t think it’s Mr. Reynolds’s car?” said Sylvester.

  “It looks like his car. Maybe he had a secret house in New Hampshire,” Rosie said. “We need to find out, but how?”

  “My dad has some friends in the New York State Police,” Woodrow offered. “I wonder if he could ask them to run the plates.”

  “That would be so cool!” said Viola, happy not to have to make another trip up the creepy Reynolds driveway. This way, she wouldn’t risk getting grounded—a punishment she could not afford right now.

  Before they said good-bye, Woodrow promised he would call his father as soon as he got home. In the meantime, the two girls decided to keep watch on the house across the street, to see if anyone came or went.

  Viola stayed up late that night. While her parents watched television in the family room, she hid in the living room, beneath the windowsill, the one that faced north toward the Reynolds house. She struggled to stay awake, mesmerized by the night, the wind, and the occasional passing car. Eventually, Viola’s father discovered her and made her go upstairs to bed.

  That night, she dreamt about gunshots, balloons popping, and firecrackers. When she woke in the morning, she realized that whoever was driving the black car must have left in the middle of the night. Its bad muffler had invaded her dreams.

  “My dad got us a name,” said Woodrow on Saturday, plopping down on the lawn in the backyard. “And you’re never going to
believe it.”

  “Oh, just tell us!” said Sylvester, joining him. The girls knelt and listened, growing impatient as Woodrow slowly unfolded a Post-it note.

  “The car is registered to a man named Victor Reynolds. He lives in North Conway, New Hampshire.”

  “Victor Reynolds?” said Viola. “That’s weird. He’s got the same last name as Nelson Reynolds.”

  The kids all looked at one another, confused.

  “Yeah,” said Woodrow, smiling slightly, enjoying this. “Can you think of a reason?”

  “They’ve got to be related,” said Rosie. “Could they be father and son? Cousins? Uncle and nephew?”

  “But people have claimed to see Nelson Reynolds since his death. Maybe Nelson and Victor look exactly the same,” Viola said. “Maybe they’re brothers.”

  “Twin brothers,” Woodrow added, nodding. “My mom’s sisters are twins. They dress in similar clothes, right down to the same brand of shoe. Not all twins act like that, but enough of them seem to fit the pattern that it makes sense Victor and Nelson did the same. People thought they were seeing Mr. Reynolds around town because they were seeing him. Just the wrong Mr. Reynolds.”

  “So the house across the street isn’t haunted at all?” said Viola. Maybe there was still hope that hers wasn’t haunted either. But how to prove it?

  “Nope,” said Woodrow. “It sure doesn’t seem that way.”

  “So what has Victor been doing in Nelson’s house?” Sylvester asked.

  “If you think about it,” said Rosie, sitting up on her heels, “it’s simple, really. Can you guess?”

  “If Nelson’s car is registered to his brother, Victor,” said Rosie, “that means Victor must have inherited it when Nelson died. Since there was never a For Sale sign at the house across the street, it makes sense that Victor inherited the house as well. Obviously, he’s no ghost. He’s probably just trying to clean up the place. Maybe he wants to move in. Or maybe he’s preparing to sell it.”